


exit wounds

by riseelectric



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Final Haikyuu Quest, Angst, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Final Haikyuu Quest, Forced Orgasm, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Knives, M/M, Rape, Strangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 14:56:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11443227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riseelectric/pseuds/riseelectric
Summary: We break before we build.





	exit wounds

**Author's Note:**

> mind the fucken tags, oh my god

“Don’t you give me that look,” Oikawa says, grinning. But there is no mirth in his gaze. All Iwaizumi sees is fury, hatred-- victory, too. Though Iwaizumi’s sight is fast blurring from pain, there’s something else as well, something unidentifiable. His heart is racing, breathing laboured, entire body rebelling against the very idea.

He tests the ties around his wrists again. Too tight. Bound without any mercy, the tips of his fingers beginning to go numb. And Oikawa has taken precautions as well; Iwaizumi’s hands are behind his back, useless. But in his hubris Oikawa has neglected to tie down Iwaizumi’s legs as well, and Iwaizumi decides he will not let this chance given to him go to waste.

“My lord,” he whispers, and Oikawa’s mouth turns up into a snarl as he digs his fingers into the collar of Iwaizumi’s shirt and tears.

“I’m not your lord, I’m your king,” he hisses, and Iwaizumi closes his mouth, shuts his eyes because there’s nothing to be said, not with that look in Oikawa’s eyes that’s become so familiar as the years have passed. Oikawa opens his shirt, bares him from collar to mid-torso, the rest of it pulled over his shoulders, and these days Iwaizumi doesn’t know if Oikawa can even hear him anymore, but he has to try.

“There’s no need for this. Have you forgotten that?” he says. Oikawa’s hand is on his left shoulder, stroking in circles, exploring the bare skin with leisure. His brown eyes -- with more and more red tinting them with each passing day -- drop a little, and he would look almost contented were it not for the decidedly vicious gleam in them. The look of a boy in the middle of his revenge.

I love him, Iwaizumi thinks. I still love him. I must, because the alternative is too unbearable.

He licks at the blood that is oozing from the cut on his lip. Not from Oikawa’s ceremonial dagger this time, but from his rings, when Oikawa had backhanded him across the face, suddenly and without warning. It’s not as though the attack had come out of nowhere -- Iwaizumi’s is the only voice in court that hasn’t bowed to Oikawa’s will, and these days Oikawa makes him pay for every stand taken against him -- but where there used to be words Oikawa has since replaced with lashes; silence where there used to be understanding.

Iwaizumi loves him, but these days, Oikawa doesn’t seem to believe that anymore. And how can he, when Iwaizumi’s own faithfulness wanes as his foundations turn to sand.

He winces as Oikawa draws his hand from Iwaizumi’s shoulder to his hip, taking care to trace a sharp fingernail over every scar encountered. Oikawa leans in, down over Iwaizumi, reminding Iwaizumi once more just how far he’s come, just how far a cry he used to be from the lonely boy he’d first seen come crawling out from a hole in the wall of the palace gardens. Oikawa smiles, his grin now inches away from Iwaizumi’s face, decidedly threatening.

“No need?” he says softly. “I don’t know about that.”

“It doesn’t have to come to this,” Iwaizumi says, mind racing for a way to escape this. He tugs once more on his bindings. “Majesty, listen to me--”

“I don’t have to listen to anything you have to say!” Oikawa cuts him off, and for a split second the deceptively cheerful smile drops, and Oikawa’s facade twists into what it truly is: rage, bone-chilling and awful and as Oikawa speaks, something invisible locks around Iwaizumi’s throat, choking him off. He tries to talk, to breathe, but under the full-blown fury of Oikawa’s wrath the very breath is stolen from him and he writhes, throat working as Oikawa grabs his hair in a too-tight grip and sinks his teeth into his neck.

“I’ve been too lenient with you, Hajime,” he growls, and even as black edges begin crawling their way into the sides of his vision, Iwaizumi feels his heart falter. Once upon a time, his name on the young prince’s lips brought him joy; now, he dreads its very use. “My council’s been saying it for years, and for years I’ve put up with your insolence. And look where my mercy’s gotten me. An uprising at the corners of my kingdom.”

The invisible wires around his throat tighten further; Iwaizumi gags, head swimming from lack of oxygen. Oikawa lets him go, pushing himself up and leaving Iwaizumi where he is as he kills him slowly. The room echoes with Oikawa’s footsteps, his anger ringing off the walls.

“You told me Tobio was dead. You told me you ran him down. You told me you took care of the last remnants of the crows, and that the iron wall was in ruins. You told me the magi in the woods had fled, every single one of their catseyes shattered.” He snarls, cloak swishing, all his finery seeming to billow as he turns back to look at Iwaizumi. “Is there nothing you’ve claimed that hasn’t been a complete and utter lie meant to undermine me?!”

Iwaizumi tries to answer, but no sound issues forth. The black spots in his vision are crowding out everything else, the ropes burns on his arms and wrists seeming to fade as his struggles do the same. Dimly, he thinks he hears a sharp intake of breath as Oikawa strides back towards him.

The constriction around his throat loosens suddenly, dissipates like it never was there. Iwaizumi gives a great heaving gasp, his body curling up instinctively as he coughs and dry-heaves as life rushes back into his grateful lungs. Bit by bit, his vision returns, blurred and wet, and when Oikawa presses his palms to his cheeks, he flinches. Oikawa tilts his chin up, making Iwaizumi look at him.

“Iwaizumi,” he murmurs, and Iwaizumi squeezes his eyes shut once more, because he refuses, _refuses_ to associate the gentleness in that voice with the red eyes across from him. Oikawa’s fingers tighten fractionally, but instead of pain, Oikawa kisses him, one hand pulling his head back by the hair, the other rubbing soothingly at his aching neck.

“I don’t understand why you make me do these things,” Oikawa whispers to him when he pulls back, just far enough that their lips brush with every word. It’s a thousand ways more intimate than the kiss itself had been, and something in Iwaizumi aches as it stirs up memories he’s buried.

“I--” he tries to say, and coughs instead, his voice ragged and hoarse. Oikawa presses kisses against his temple until Iwaizumi finds his voice again. It hurts when he speaks.

“I’ve never made you do anything you’ve never wanted to do, Oikawa,” he rasps, and something in Oikawa’s gaze flickers. Darkens.

“How can you say that,” the demon king hisses, voice low, “when I’ve allowed you to become the only thing left standing in my way?”

Resentment rises in Iwaizumi, bitter against his tongue. He swallows, forcing himself to speak despite his protesting throat. “You’re blinder than I thought,” he rasps, “if that’s what you see in someone who’s stood by you all your life.”

He shifts, arms numb and useless, but he has no desire to be here a second longer. Oikawa watches him with a sneer on his lips as Iwaizumi struggles upright, still trying to loosen his bonds.

“Untie me.” he tells Oikawa.

Oikawa looks coldly down at him. He says nothing.

Iwaizumi stands, and it’s not until he feels cool air brushing against his chafed wrists that he realises there’s also a wetness there as well. Gritting his teeth, he turns his back to his king. He’s probably the only being in the kingdom who could without losing his life.

“You did this,” he says, and the rope burns on his wrists throb in time with his heartbeat. “Now undo it.”

He waits, for a minute, or two, or ten. He waits like he had done long years before by the crack in the palace wall for his prince to appear, he waits like he had done by Tooru’s bedside the week he’d fallen deathly ill with fever, he waits like his life depends on it.

A rustle of silk and fabric as it slides across the carpet. Iwaizumi feels Oikawa’s breath against the back of his neck before Oikawa’s arm wraps around his waist, his chin nestling atop Iwaizumi’s bared shoulder. Iwaizumi doesn’t even realise how stiff he is until he feels Oikawa’s teeth against his ear and his entire body tenses up even more.

Iwaizumi feels his fingers toying at the knots, and he forces himself not to wince as Oikawa runs his fingers against torn flesh and smears his skin with blood.

“Don’t,” Oikawa breathes, “tell me what to do.”

Iwaizumi lets out a slow exhale, closing his eyes briefly. Sometimes, there’s nothing you can do.

He turns in Oikawa’s arms, looks up at his childhood friend, his first love, his sworn liege lord, and says in a voice of ice. “Get off me. I’m leaving.”

“We are far from finished.”

“Get _out_ of my way.”

With a growl, he shoves past Oikawa, ramming his shoulder against the king’s to push him out of the way. He hears his name, furious and disbelieving, and he ignores it utterly, needing to leave, to get out, to get away until he can fool himself into coming back once more. Oikawa calls after him once more, his voice rising into a guttural snarl.

“Don’t you dare turn your back on me, Hajime!”

Iwaizumi ducks, twisting out of the way. Oikawa’s hand shoots past his shoulder, fingers looking almost claw-like as they just barely miss him, and Iwaizumi uses Oikawa’s own momentum to trip him. Oikawa stumbles, and Iwaizumi sees his chance. He leaps, drawing his knees as close to his chest as possible, and as he does he loops his bound wrists under himself. There’s an alarming crack, and he winces, both shoulders feeling like they’re dislocated, but he achieves what he’d wanted: his hands may still be bound, but they’re in front of him now. He reaches the door in three desperate steps, and his numb fingers fumble at the handle. The door turns in his hands--

\-- and a force from behind him knocks him right into it, his skull bouncing off the hardwood with a crack. He grunts, disoriented, feeling a stream of hot, sticky blood slide down his face as his wrists are pulled above him. Pins and needles shoot up his forearms, the prolonged restriction of his numb wrists weakening them. Furious, he fights against the force, and manages to drive an elbow behind him; it gratifies him to hear Oikawa gasp, winded, as Iwaizumi digs deep against his stomach.

Oikawa stumbles back and Iwaizumi whirls around, lashing out with a kick. His boot catches Oikawa full on the side of his face and this time Oikawa’s cry of pain is real enough that Iwaizumi almost falters. Oikawa topples, and Iwaizumi glimpses a palm scrape across the floor to break the fall before turning away once more, back to escape. The mark will be visible on Oikawa’s visage tomorrow, he knows, and he knows that they’re fast approaching a line that neither of them have crossed before.

It hasn’t gone past a point of no return yet. This isn’t the worst Iwaizumi’s done to Oikawa, and it isn’t the worst that Oikawa’s done to him. Every sense in his body screams at him to run, run before it’s too late, before both of them do something unforgivable.

Oikawa gets there first.

The door is open in Iwaizumi’s hands for all of three seconds before it slams shut in his face, the handle ripping itself from his grip with the force of it. Iwaizumi reaches out, but before he can do more than scrabble for it an unseen force slams into him once more, lifting him bodily off his feet and sending him crashing against the wall. His entire body feels like one big bruise; his back slides several inches down the wall before he manages to brace his weight and push himself back to his feet. Before he can do much else, Oikawa points at him once more, and he’s sent hurtling against an end table. The edge drives against his ribs before the entire thing shatters, and he gasps, breath driven clean out of him. The vase with its roses topples, smashing against the ground, breaking into pieces.

Once more, Iwaizumi tries to scramble to his feet, heart pounding, breathing hard, something he refuses to call fear coursing through him. All of his instincts are screaming now, uncaring of the way the palms of his hands slice open and bleed afresh as he pushes himself up on the glass shards of the vase. In a moment of distress and disorientation, he calls out to Oikawa by the name he used before he’d been crowned, before everything between them had started to fracture.

“Tooru-”

“ _You dare?_ ” Oikawa says, and in a world of terrible things, his voice is the most terrible Iwaizumi has ever heard it be.

Oikawa throws him against the wall four more times, and each time Iwaizumi gets back on his feet, each time unsteadier than the last. Until he’s spitting blood, until he’s so concussed he can’t see straight, until he can do nothing but grasp Oikawa’s wrists as Oikawa holds him up by his abused neck.

He looks into Oikawa’s eyes then, and such is the pain that he barely registers the frisson of fear that runs through him at Oikawa’s completely crimson irises.

“You dare to lay hands on your king,” hisses the man he once called Oikawa Tooru, and Iwaizumi closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

“My mercy is wasted on you,” Oikawa says, and hurls him to the ground. Fresh agony lances through Iwaizumi’s hands as he lands on them.

“Tooru,” he tries again, trying to work the word around the blood filling up his mouth as Oikawa yanks him forcibly to his feet and shoves him against a table. Again, invisible hands yank Iwaizumi’s own out in front of him, pressing him down until his forearms are pinned against the flat surface. Every part of his body is crying out, but as Oikawa shoves him down until he’s bent double, a fresher wave of fear ripples through Iwaizumi as he feels Oikawa’s hardness pressed against his backside.

Not fear for himself, or for what he realises is about to be done to him.

Fear for Oikawa.

“Oikawa, wait, _wait_ \--”

He twists, tries to turn and make Oikawa look him in the eye, but a sudden sharpness at his throat makes him stop cold. The dagger that Oikawa wears at his waist is pressed so tightly against his bruised throat that he feels beads of blood sliding down the edge.

“Come to think of it, we haven’t fucked in a while, Hajime,” Oikawa mouths against his ear, and Iwaizumi doesn’t move, fearing he’d cut his own throat against the blade if he did. Before he can respond, the blade moves away from his neck, only to dig its point against his shoulder blade, hard. Iwaizumi flinches, but makes no sound as Oikawa drags it down, slashing the rest of his shirt from him in long diagonal strokes that leaves his back streaming red. Iwaizumi grits his teeth, making no noise even as Oikawa cuts across the backs of his thighs, carving shallow lacerations into them until Oikawa finally yanks the tatters of his trousers off him as well.

His silence holds, but he can’t help a low hiss from escaping when Oikawa drapes himself over his back, pressing himself against the open wounds on the backs of Iwaizumi’s thighs and back. Oikawa reaches forwards until he’s holding Iwaizumi’s bloodstained hands in his own, pressing against every cut and reopening them. Iwaizumi doesn’t give him the satisfaction of flinching, even as the throbbing in his hands flare up once more.

“Iwa-chan, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa murmurs, his nose buried against Iwaizumi’s neck. He can feel every breath, every heave of Oikawa’s chest. “I’ve missed this. I know you have, too.”

His hands slide away, back down the table, landing onto Iwaizumi’s thighs. His palms are warm, almost hot against his skin, and Iwaizumi shudders when Oikawa touches him there. Another shiver runs down his spine as Oikawa strokes him. He can’t remember the last time Oikawa had touched him without the intent to injure, to hurt, and the familiarity of the gentle touches now almost undoes him. He tries to back away, and Oikawa’s hands only follow him. Their hips press flush against each other, seamless.

“Oikawa, stop,” he says, and curses when Oikawa runs his thumb over the tip, making his hips jerk. Oikawa doesn’t seem to hear him, and the more he moves the more Iwaizumi’s body reacts, until he starts to hate himself for not being able to reconcile the revulsion in his heart with the pleasure his senses insist on.

I’m a fool, he thinks. We’re not breaking; we’re already broken.

“Tooru.” Iwaizumi says, quieter than he has ever before, and something in his voice seems to finally get through. “Get off me. Please.”

Oikawa goes still, his breaths coming in shallow. For a long, long moment, he says nothing, does nothing.

Then slowly, he slides off of Iwaizumi, and the pressure pinning him to the table lessens as well. Iwaizumi straightens, turning to look at Oikawa. Before he can do anything else, Oikawa is leaning in, eyes closed, one hand grasping him firmly by the chin and kissing him deeply. His lips are as soft as Iwaizumi remembers, though his teeth leave indents against Iwaizumi’s bottom lip.

Just as the fingers digging into his cheeks are starting to hurt, Oikawa pulls back. Iwaizumi looks at him, and looks into red.

“No,” Oikawa breathes against his lips.

Iwaizumi pulls away, violently. Oikawa lets him, and Iwaizumi stumbles back half a step before all his muscles are suddenly locked in place, unmoving. He quivers with the effort to break past the spell, but Oikawa just pulls him to the bed and pushes Iwaizumi onto it, helpless as a rag doll.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi says, lips pale and eyes paler as he speaks through clenched teeth. If his voice is shaking, Oikawa gives no sign that he’d noticed. “You swore you’d never use blood magic on me. You _swore_.”

“Your prince promised you that, and I’ve kept that promise.” Oikawa says, impassive. He snaps his fingers; instantly, the ropes around Iwaizumi’s wrists fall away, dropping limply onto the covers. He tries to move his arms, to push Oikawa away, or to hit him, but the only thing that happens is that his wrists press themselves to either side of his head, transfixed there against his will. Oikawa leans over him.

“As your king,” he says, “I’ve sworn no such oath.”

Iwaizumi looks at him, then, looks into irises as crimson as the blood slowly staining the sheets around him. There’s a prickling in his own eyes that’s gone when he blinks again, like scales have just fallen from them.

Iwaizumi says nothing more. He only levels a look at Oikawa, his gaze like shuttered steel.

Oikawa crawls up on top of him and kisses his shoulder, open-mouthed and wet, and when he begins sucking on the skin above the line of Iwaizumi’s jugular, Iwaizumi neither turns away nor resists. He doesn’t remember the last time they’ve done this, but Oikawa falls back into the habit easily enough, almost far too much so. He still knows Iwaizumi through and through, and puts his fingers and mouth to use exactly where Iwaizumi used to want him to.

It’s Oikawa who breaks the silence, insofar as silence went, with the soft, wet noises Oikawa’s mouth makes and Iwaizumi’s heavy breaths as he tempers down every resulting reaction.

“Iwa-chan,” he mumbles, his mouth full, and Iwaizumi bites back a groan that threatens to rise from his throat. The longer he lies there, the more it feels like he’s being drained somehow. Oikawa’s hands wander, pressing and kneading, intimately familiar with each and every one of Iwaizumi’s pleasure points, and they elicit strange, tingling sensations that resemble tickles but are far more pleasant. There’s a lightheadedness that’s creeping up on him, shrouding the edges of his thoughts with something like red fog. It dulls his will, takes the sharp edge of pain emanating from his lacerations and blurs it into an ache that melds perfectly with the one between his legs.

His whole body throbs.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says again. He’s looking into Iwaizumi’s face, the obvious fondness in his expression doing nothing to hide the want in his eyes. “Talk to me.”

“Or what?” Iwaizumi says, barely audible. He doesn’t look away.

“Or, my knight, I will redefine your meaning of obedience.” Oikawa whispers into his mouth, and his hand around Iwaizumi tightens, slides up and down until Iwaizumi’s breath catches in his throat and his hips stutter.

But still he doesn’t utter what he knows Oikawa wants to pull out of him.

“This won’t break me.” he says. “You won’t break me.”

“That’s what they all say,” Oikawa tells him, and spreads Iwaizumi’s legs.

He uses an entire vial of oil on Iwaizumi, dripping it into him, working it into him so completely thoroughly that it’s impossible for Iwaizumi to even pretend it feels anything but pleasurable. Pain is nonexistent, and Iwaizumi wishes it wasn’t. It would make all of this so, so much easier. When Oikawa pushes one finger into him, it goes in with all the ease of a blade sliding into its sheath, he’s that slick. A high, strained noise almost tears itself from his lips but once again he stifles it with force.

Oikawa watches him fight, eyes dark. He curls his finger, sinking even deeper, and as he rubs repeatedly over that spot his lips lift into a snarl of a smile.

“Let me hear you, Hajime. I command you.”

Shivers race up and down Iwaizumi’s spine. For several heartbeats he fights the urge to move his hips down onto Oikawa’s hand, then loses, and Oikawa slides another digit inside, presses and curls and taps against that place inside him as though it’s a reward for good behavior. Iwaizumi wants to scream, except nothing comes out, and his body refuses to do anything he wants it to. He’s physically unable to stop himself, the red fog muting his fear and fury and turning the edges into something pliant and soft, like the place Oikawa is working into between his legs. The fire at the pit of his stomach throbs, takes over his hips to rock against those fingers. Again, and again. More, more more _more more--_

Oikawa gives a low laugh as Iwaizumi’s thighs jerk and twitch, back arching, throat bared. He comes, hard, dry, against his will.

Something threatens to spill down his cheek. Instead, the red fog takes that too, and smothers it. His breath, in and out. Dry and slick with saliva all at once. Heavy, heavy, heavy.

He doesn’t cry.

Oikawa is still waiting for him. He’s running a hand lovingly through Iwaizumi’s sweat-soaked hair, and as he does he accidentally brushes against the wound on Iwaizumi’s temple. The starburst of pain sends a spark through him, slicing through his aftershocks, dispersing some of the red fog. Impossibly, somehow, Iwaizumi finds it within himself to force out a single ragged word.

“No.”

The king stares down at him. He pulls his fingers out, too fast, hand dripping, and Iwaizumi jerks again. Then, like a cancer, or a curse, Oikawa presses himself against Iwaizumi, and then-- into him.

Pleasure blooms like flowers inside him, a disease of fire. The fog rolls back over him, seeps into his eyes, tinting everything a deeper shade of scarlet as Oikawa insinuates himself inside, slow and purposeful and so, so full. Iwaizumi is shuddering, body wracked with tremors, unable to lift even a finger to cover his eyes, or to muffle his mouth as Oikawa takes him, over and over again.

Oikawa leans down over him, far enough that his face is hidden over Iwaizumi’s shoulder. Iwaizumi opens his mouth, and does the only thing left to him; he sinks his teeth into the junction of Oikawa’s neck and shoulder.

Oikawa’s blood tastes like ironrust and saltwater, thin rivulets of red welling out of the punctures that Iwaizumi cannot take his eyes off, suddenly unsure that its shape fits exactly the shape of his own incisor. But when he runs the tip of his tongue across the tooth, he tastes blood. Not his.

Then Oikawa moves against him once more, _in_ him, and Iwaizumi buries his mouth against the crook of Oikawa’s neck, muffling himself. The sounds small and near inaudible when made into Oikawa’s flesh. But Iwaizumi knows there is some vibration, and his breathing is ragged, and he does not delude himself for even a moment that maybe Oikawa has heard and noticed nothing. His mouth is too busy with Iwaizumi’s own shoulder to form words, except meaningless nothings whispered against Iwaizumi’s skin, in a language Iwaizumi cannot even identify. It sounds almost like a song, all soft syllables and rolled r’s and carefully articulated t’s. Like no language Iwaizumi has ever heard.

He feels one of Oikawa’s hands move into his hair and grip, firm, almost painfully so. He pulls back, leaving Iwaizumi with nowhere to hide.

“Are you here?” the demon king asks. “Are you with me? When are you going to acknowledge that we are _here_ and we are _alive_ and you can’t escape that, you can’t escape _this_ \--”

He rocks his hips, and Iwaizumi’s back arches, body spasming. Oikawa looks down at him, and Iwaizumi knows exactly what his gaze alights on: Iwaizumi’s thighs, spread to accommodate the width of Oikawa’s hips.

His fists clench. He runs his tongue over dry, chapped lips, scarred and split open. The dried blood itches.

“Do with me what you will,” Iwaizumi whispers, and Oikawa does exactly that, forcing a strangled moan out of Iwaizumi as he thrusts into him so hard it feels as if he’s trying to crawl right into him. Oikawa’s trying to shut him up, Iwaizumi knows, and if it were anyone else he would have said that it was out of spite that he continued to speak through gritted teeth.

“My mind is yours, my-- _ah_ \-- my body is yours,” he continues, even as he feels every inch of Oikawa sliding into him, filling him against his wishes. His body clenches down around Oikawa involuntarily, the insistent ache that Oikawa had forcibly ignited within him almost unbearable. “I’m yours. Even if everything else changes, that never will.”

Oikawa’s eyes widen. Iwaizumi opens his mouth and without hesitation crushes the sudden, joyous hope that had flared up in them.

“But don’t think for even a second that you’re taking anything from me.”

Oikawa laughs, then, harsh and bitter and mirthless. “No? Then what do you call this?” His fingers brush where they’re connected.

Iwaizumi meets his gaze. “I’ve given everything for you, Tooru.” he answers. “I'm still giving. You knew the difference, once. I think you still do.”

For the first time, Oikawa falters, staring at him open-mouthed. Iwaizumi reaches up, and like the sudden ripping of a veil, realises that he _can_. He tears his arms away from the bed, out from Oikawa’s control, not knowing how, not caring why. He digs his nails into the back of Oikawa’s neck, pulls him down until nothing is lost between them, the red fog clouding his mind burning down to nothing before the red-hot blade of his desire-fueled anger. All the missing moments they’ve been striving to ignore comes crashing down, carrying Iwaizumi with it; a perfect storm of guilt and resentment, pain and pleasure he will not admit. Every consequence he’s feared is looming over their horizons, and this time-- this time, he does not stop them. This time, he lets the metaphor break.

“You are not the king you were meant to be,” Hajime whispers against Oikawa’s ear. “and until he returns to me,  _I renounce you._ ”

Oikawa jerks. He tries to pull away, and Hajime only digs in deeper, holding him there as the cuts in his palm stains Oikawa’s collar with red. “With my heart, and with my soul, I renounce you,” he snarls, feeling his heart break with every word, and Oikawa actually cries out, as if physically pained.

“ _Hajime_ \--”

“My sword is no longer yours to command, your will no longer my own,” he says, traitor’s words slipping from him like spilled ink. He wraps his arms around Oikawa’s shoulders, nails digging into his back, holding him tight, holding him close. “And even as I renege my vows, I swear this--” Iwaizumi continues, and as he speaks something drips out of the corner of one eye, maybe.

Hajime curls one hand around Oikawa’s cheek, presses their foreheads together. “--I’m going to save you, Tooru.” he chokes. “I’m going to bring you back. I swear it.”

Next second, he’s flung back, Oikawa ripping himself from Hajime’s grasp, a guttural cry of fury bursting from his throat as the full force of the king’s wrath surrounds him. Iwaizumi is turned, onto his knees, exactly where Oikawa wants him. Bowed, bent... but unbroken.

And Oikawa knows. He knows.

Iwaizumi’s hand flies up, grappling at Oikawa’s thighs as Oikawa presses back into him, hard and hot and overwhelming. The ache rises to a roar as Oikawa threatens to split him from the inside, keeps him open, bereft, torn. Iwaizumi feels his body gripping Oikawa as he barely pulls out only to slam back in, claiming Iwaizumi over and over, hitting that one, explosive place inside him again and again until Iwaizumi writhes uncontrollably, pleasure wracking him. It’s too much, too intimate, too cruel.

Behind him, in him, Oikawa burns, and when he grasps Iwaizumi, forcing Iwaizumi’s hips into a rolling motion so he’s forced to fuck into the wet slippery tunnel of Oikawa’s hand, he feels like vengeance.

“Save yourself,” hisses the king, and he breaches Iwaizumi once more, admits himself deeper. He pulls Iwaizumi up by the hair, merciless, and Iwaizumi rises, unable to resist. Darkness covers his eyes as Oikawa slides one palm over them, pulling his head back, exposing his throat.

Iwaizumi can’t breathe. “Oikawa,” he says. He will not plead.

Oikawa stops. There’s nowhere else to go. He’s in as deep as he can possibly reach, skin against skin, thick and pulsing and so full that Iwaizumi’s heartbeat echoes in synch.

“Do you like it, Hajime?” Tooru asks, his voice carving against Iwaizumi’s bruised skin. “Does it feel good?”

Iwaizumi’s mouth closes around a single word. “No.” he breathes. Within him, Oikawa shifts, forces an aborted moan from him before Iwaizumi gathers the tattered rags of his self-control and says again, “ _No_.”

Oikawa grabs his chin, turns his head and kisses him over Iwaizumi’s shoulder. It’s soft, desperate, little pained noises issuing from Oikawa as he ravages Iwaizumi’s already-abused mouth, his lip split and kiss-swollen. Oikawa’s hips are rocking again, punching out helpless, involuntary sounds from Iwaizumi’s slack mouth, and Oikawa swallows them all. He tastes like ashes, like hatred.

“Liar,” Oikawa says, and Iwaizumi hears his voice break. When he inhales, his breath is just as ragged as Hajime’s, if not more so. “You’re a liar, Iwa-chan.”

He says no more after that, and kisses Iwaizumi as he comes, spilling hot inside him, forces Iwaizumi to take it all until it slows to a sickening trickle. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so aware of his body before, every screaming muscle, every nerve on fire, and most of all, the way his body grips Oikawa as he pulls out, and resists as he pushes back in.

Iwaizumi’s head falls back against Oikawa’s shoulder, chest heaving. He needs to come, so badly, needs it more than he needs water, than he needs air. He trembles, and Oikawa moves a hand between his legs.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” Iwaizumi snaps, harsh like he hasn’t sounded since he’d entered the king’s quarters. Unforgiving.

Against all expectations, Oikawa freezes, his hand coming to a halt.

Iwaizumi’s own limbs feel shaky, rubbery, tensed for too long. The wave of strengthlessness washing over him makes him grit his teeth, and he forces himself to get it over with. He wraps one hand around himself, unheeding of the stinging in his wounds, long since pushed past the thresholds of pain and pleasure. A hoarse groan tears itself from the confines of his chest as he moves, holding himself in a strong, almost painful grip. Harsh, fast breaths fill the air as he balances on the very edge, needing to cross it now, _now_ \--

Oikawa’s hands grip his waist, and before Iwaizumi can shove them away he yanks Hajime in close. He’s still semi-hard inside, and as Oikawa pulls their hips flush together once more he presses right up against that too-sensitive spot inside him. Hajime comes undone, shuddering, his mouth open even as he forcibly strangles every noise that issues from him. Burning up from the inside, torn apart and put back together as Oikawa pushes him over the final brink, again, and then again.

He thrusts helplessly into his hand, spilling messily over his fingers. Oikawa holds him, pressed too close against his back as the last vestiges of pleasure ebbs away, finally, leaving him empty, leaving him hollow. He barely notices it when Oikawa pulls out, barely acknowledges as slim, strong fingers enter him. Oikawa pushes the mess he’d made further in as he places his lips on the back of Iwaizumi’s neck, kissing the skin there almost languidly.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says, inaudible.

Coherence returns to Iwaizumi in increments, slow, steady. He’s drained, exhausted, thoughts shifting like sand through an hourglass, every cut still bleeding sluggishly on his body crying for his attention. But the red fog is no more, and with every stab of pain his mind focuses, sharpens.

He blinks, the walls of the room coming back into focus. The broken table, the tapestries, the closed door. Tooru isn’t touching him anymore, he notices abstractly. Oikawa catches his gaze, and Iwaizumi stares at him until Oikawa’s eyes drop. Then Iwaizumi picks himself up, moves his deadened legs over the edge of the bed. His body quakes minutely with the effort to hold him up and keep him standing, but it does. It is his own once more, and Oikawa will not see him fall, not ever again.

Wordlessly, Iwaizumi crosses to the other side of the room, where Oikawa isn’t, and begins to staunch the bleeding where he can reach, stripping makeshift bandages from the finery in Oikawa’s wardrobe. He can feel Oikawa’s mounting distress even from here, and he thinks, it’s far too late for regret. Years too late.

When Iwaizumi clothes himself in Oikawa’s own garments-- simple, but adorned riding attire-- the king seems to startle. All the uncertainty and anxiety Iwaizumi had felt emanating from him seems to manifest even further in the atmosphere, increasing exponentially.

“Hajime. Come here. To me.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t even look at him, not even when Oikawa’s expression tightens and he flicks an imperious hand. Iwaizumi waits for the force of Oikawa’s magic to subjugate him.

Instead, nothing. Iwaizumi is surprised at his own lack therefore. Something between them had died this night, in this room, an unspoken barrier that was as much protection as it was a cage. Something irreparable, something fragile.

Oikawa's magic-- a childhood promise that had stemmed from an oath to protect and to love-- doesn't work on him anymore.

“There’s nothing left for me here,” Iwaizumi says, and the truth of his words echoes around the room, and underlines the finality of Oikawa’s fruitless attempts.

From across the distance between them, Oikawa seethes. With his magic useless against Hajime, Oikawa will not physically come after him, they both know. Even like this, Iwaizumi is more than a match for him in a battle of sheer, physical power.

“You won’t get far. I’ll have you back at my side before long, _Oathbreaker_.” Oikawa spits, his eyes glinting with something far worse than hatred as he bestows to Iwaizumi his new ( _last_ ) title.

“Yes,” Iwaizumi says quietly, and turns away, wearing his condemnation like the weight of a world on his shoulders, or a brand, or a crown.

Oikawa doesn’t move as Iwaizumi pulls out his own hunting knife and cuts away the king’s insignia from his cloak to place it carefully upon the table. When he puts his hand on the door once more, it opens without resistance.

Outside, the stones of the corridor feels cold and empty, not part of the real world at all. The castle beyond silent and lifeless. He staggers to the wall, briefly rests his forehead against it. Closes his eyes and whispers a goodbye into the dark, but there is no one to hear him. If there ever was at all.


End file.
